I want a date.

The most romantically cliche one possible.

I’d pick her up, knock on her door, nervously introduce myself to her parents and struggle to make conversation while I wait for her to get ready. She’d walk into the room, after what seems an eternity, taking my breath away; her dress, so elegant; her hair, so perfect; and her smile, weakening my knees. I’d stumble over my words, trying my best to describe how gorgeous she looks. I’d make a promise to her dad; back before midnight.

The next couple of hours pass like minutes.

First, a candlelit dinner at a fancy seaside restaurant. With a violinist, of course. Followed by a walk on the beach while the sun makes way for the stars. My hand, so closely interlaced with hers, making us feel larger than the world. Everyone else disappears. And when we stop to gaze at the stars, I’ll be gazing at her, with the breeze trying its best to unperfect her perfect hair.

And then it’s almost midnight; I drive her home, walk her to the door, and give her a kiss on the cheek at exactly 11:59 PM.